ace, without loss of time. This led to a more friendly and
free talk, from which Oliver learned that his friend's name was Jack
Dawkins--among his intimate friends better known as the "Artful
Dodger"--and that he was a peculiar pet of the elderly gentleman before
mentioned.

As John Dawkins objected to their entering London before nightfall, it
was nearly eleven o'clock when they reached the small city street, along
which the Dodger scudded at a rapid pace, directing Oliver to follow
close at his heels.

Although Oliver had enough to occupy his attention in keeping sight of
his leader, he could not help bestowing a few hasty glances on either
side of the way as he passed along. A dirtier or more wretched place he
had never seen.

Oliver was just considering whether he hadn't better run away, when they
reached the bottom of the hill. His conductor, catching him by the arm,
pushed open the door of a house, and, drawing him into the passage,
closed it behind them.

"Now, then!" cried a voice from below, in reply to a whistle from the
Dodger.

"Plummy and slam!" was the reply.

This seemed to be some watchword or signal that all was right; for the
light of a feeble candle gleamed on the wall at the remote end of the
passage, and a man's face peeped out from where a balustrade of the old
kitchen staircase had been broken away.

"There's two of you," said the man, thrusting the candle farther out,
and shading his eyes with his hand. "Who's the t'other one?"

"A new pal," replied Jack Dawkins, pulling Oliver forward.

"Where did he come from?"

"Greenland. Is Fagin up-stairs?"

"Yes; he's a sortin' the wipes. Up with you!" The candle was drawn back,
and the face disappeared.

Oliver, groping his way with one hand, and having the other firmly
grasped by his companion, ascended with much difficulty the dark and
broken stairs; which his conductor mounted with an ease and expedition
that showed he was well acquainted with them. He threw open the door of
a back-room, and drew Oliver in after him.

The walls and ceiling of the room were perfectly black with age and
dirt. There was a deal table before the fire, upon which were a candle
stuck in a ginger-beer bottle, two or three pewter-pots, a loaf and
butter, and a plate. Seated round the table were four or five boys,
none older than the Dodger, smoking clay pipes and drinking spirits,
with the air of middle-aged men. These all crowded about their friend as
he whis